


We Could Be Magic

by KALLIOPH



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Many other characters - Freeform, Multi, Post-Canon, clusterfuck of complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-08 19:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KALLIOPH/pseuds/KALLIOPH
Summary: It's the end of the world (or LA, at least) but it will probably be fine. What's left of Team Angel meets up with the Scoobies and try to save the world, but everyone sure does have a lot of feelings, huh? It's a shame, apocalypses would be so much easier to thwart if we didn't have those pesky feelings, but I guess that's just, like, the law of the universe or something. Oh, right, and there's still some dumb prophecy to worry about, too.





	1. Angel - The Fall of LA

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up right after the last ep of Angel, bringing Buffy and Co. back into the mix. Also will explore a little bit of Buffy's last year. There are a LOT of feelings from every one in this quadrangle, so be warned! But hopefully we'll get a decent look at each individual and group dynamic.

Angel stumbles as he tears through the last of this wave. He’s exhausted—so exhausted his head burns and his body shakes. He’s exhausted, but he isn’t too badly hurt, he thinks, not for the three days of nonstop war that have passed.

His vision narrows into a pinpoint of light, darkness creeping in from the corners of his eyes and his knees buckle. He knows there’ll be more, but he barely managed to make it through this wave.

He stumbles into an alley, the alley they started from, and leans against the dumpster. He doesn’t smell Gunn there at first through all the bodies. He nearly pushes some dismembered limbs into him, but there’s so much death around him it must be inhibiting his sense of smell. He’s so startled that he doesn’t register that Gunn’s dead, not for a brief, hopeful moment.

“Shit,” he murmurs, reaching out one trembling, bloodstained hand and gently cupping the cold, smooth cheek. He manages to shut Gunn’s eyes despite his failing motor skills, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

He doesn’t know where Ilyria’s gone, but he feels certain they’re still alive. Wes is dead and Lorne is long gone, all he’s got left is Spike.

And bless his damned soul, Spike comes staggering around the alleyway looking like he’s about to drop dead at any second. His face is twisted up in pain but he’s on a mission.

“Spike,” Angel breathes.

Spike falls to his knees before Angel, and one of his legs is definitely broken. He’s clutching his side that’s leaking terrible amounts of blood and Angel suspects he might also be holding in an organ or two. There’s no part of him that looks alright, even his skin looks much closer to the deathly blue pallor of the dead not destined to rise again.

“Fuck,” Spike rasps, falling against Angel, his head buried against Angel’s neck and the force of it knocks them both to the ground. Spike whimpers pathetically, and Angel briefly thinks that Spike would never willingly let himself make that sounds around Angel. He sounds broken.

“Shh,” Angel mutters, cradling the back of Spike’s head with his hand.

Spike’s hand, coated thick with his own blood, clutches Angel’s shirt in a fist, tight and desperate, like a lifeline.

“Spike, I’m here,” Angel can’t manage more than broken whispers, but he knows it’s more than Spike can manage. “You’re here. We’re here.” His fingers rub the back of Spike’s head, soothing. Spike is limp, shaking like he wants to cry but he’s too exhausted, too run out.

“Easy,” Angel cautions. “Easy, easy. We’re here. It’s been three days but we’re still here.” His sight is fading fast, Angel notices. Everything is going black. He is pressed so close to Spike that his lips come away with blood. Some of it’s Spike’s, a lot of it’s vile, disgusting, not-really-blood from the army.

“Fuck,” Spike breathes again. As the last of the light fades, Angel agrees.

***

“Angel!”

He wants to open his eyes, but they’re too heavy.

“Angel— _Angel_! You’ve gotta let us in!”

And then it doesn’t matter what his body can do because the voice is Buffy, so he’ll do it. He opens his eyes.

She’s pounding on some invisible barrier blocking her from them just two feet from where they lay. Willow’s beside her, knelt on one knee and inspecting with worry in her eyes. Ilyria stands behind them, intrigued.

“Angel, Spike!” Buffy continues to shout.

Angel notices there’s no weight against his right side and slides his eyes over to see that Spike has slumped off his shoulder, unmoving and unresponsive. That startles him into full, adrenaline fueled consciousness. There’s no Earth where he or Spike do not answer to Buffy.

He can’t move well, or fast, but he pulls his knees under him and faces Spike. The vampire’s curled in on himself, face etched with pain. Angel really wishes he could tell how bad it is by smell or heartbeat or something, but he knows enough to know it’s bad. 

“Angel, take this down!” Buffy insists, hammering her fists against the barrier.

“I’m not doing that,” Angel rasps. He turns his head too quickly and everything goes blurry. A few moments later he’s picking himself up off the wet, bloody concrete. 

“Angel!” Buffy shouts, “Oh my god, let me in!” she screams loud enough that even in his dazed state he can hear something in her throat shred. Then, all of a sudden, she topples through and the barrier evaporates. She doesn’t even question it, just pulls his face into her hands. “Thank god you’re alive—or undead or whatever—thank god.”

“I’m alright,” he pants, slapping his palm to his forehead and pressing against his skull in an effort to relieve some pressure. “We need to worry about him,” he indicates Spike with a nod. Willow’s already there, unfurling the very unconscious body.

“Buffy, he’s in bad shape, we gotta go,” Willow says.

Angel squints at the city, a great deal of broken and burning buildings, but he can’t help but smirk when he lays eyes on the hotel just south of them. “There,” he says, pointing. “The Hyperion.”

Ilyria picks up Spike like he weighs nothing and Buffy helps Angel to his feet.

“Wait,” he insists. His head is cloudy, but he knows something isn’t right.

“Angel?” Buffy asks.

“Gunn,” he says.

“None of us have guns,” Willow frowns.

“No,” Angel turns over his shoulder and falls back to the ground, reaching for his comrade. “Gunn,” he repeats. “I can’t leave him here.”

“Angel, he’s dead,” Buffy says softly.

“Ilyria,” Angel begs. Without a word the god strides over and picks up Gunn, too.

“Now we must go,” they say. “Unless you wish to waste more time and let this one die,” she indicates Spike.

Buffy hoists him up again and they head for the abandoned hotel as quickly as they can, which is not very. Willow’s on her cell, presumably calling the others, but there’s a ringing in Angel’s ear and he can’t make out what she’s saying.

Everything feels too far away and too fast, but he can’t close his eyes or he’ll be asleep on his feet and that won’t help anyone. Instead he wills his feet onward, tripping every other step, but still going. There are a million reasons to thank god for Buffy, but her ability to hold him up is currently his favorite.

They make it in no small amount of time, but they make it. There’s a commotion; Angel spots Faith, covered in blood and smiling, along with all the others that Buffy must have called up in the event of a new apocalypse.

Buffy shouts for everyone to get inside and they do. “We’re here, Angel. We made it,” she murmurs in his ear, helping him through the threshold behind Ilyria.

Inside it smells like everyone he loved.

“Faith,” Buffy calls, pulling the other slayer from the busy crowd. “I’m gonna take these two upstairs. Can you . . .” her eyes drift to Gunn. Gunn’s body.

“Yeah, I got it B,” Faith assures her, taking the body from Ilyria. Something like a tender look flashes through her eyes, but Buffy has a mission.

“Come on,” Buffy says to Ilyria, nodding to the stairs. “Follow me.” She has to practically carry him up the stairs even though he remembers how many there are, how the twelfth step is slightly crooked. Buffy shoulders open the first door they come across. It’s a simple suite with a couple of twin beds, a kitchenette, an arm chair, and the ugliest wallpaper one could imagine.

“Put him on one of the beds,” Buffy instructs Ilyria, taking Angel to the other twin. “Are you alright?” she asks, and for the first time her face is in clear focus, very close to his.

“Just tired,” he slurs, waving her away.

Buffy nods. Her eyes slide over to Spike, passed out on the other bed. “Is that . . .”

“Yeah, it’s him,” Angel answers. He’s slow for his exhaustion, but he’d have to be blind to miss the way the muscles in Buffy’s neck tighten and a hundred different emotions flash through her eyes.

“It’s not a glamour or a shape-shifter or—”

“No.”

“Okay,” she says, steeling herself, straightening her shoulders. She makes her way around with steps that she wants to be deliberate. Her breathing is uneven and her heart is racing and for a moment Angel feels a rush, even though he knows its not for him.

She inspects him with just her eyes, hands perched and ready to touch but scared. “He’s in bad shape,” she says. “How’d it get this bad?”

“It was a tough fight,” Angel says dryly. “Most of us didn’t make it.”

Buffy’s gaze flickers to him. “You’re not hemorrhaging.”

She has a fair point. “I should be,” is all he can think to say.

She turns back to Spike, gently tilting his head with her hand, revealing a very shattered collarbone and a significant laceration from shoulder to neck. Her hand draws back stained bright red.

“It’s a miracle he made it to me,” Angel thinks aloud. “We split up three days ago.”

Buffy nods her agreement before tearing apart the bed sheets and getting to work. Ilyria frowns as she watches her work. “That will do nothing for him. I will go and return with proper supplies. Wesley made a salve for me. I will replicate it.” And with that, the god spins on their heels and strolls out the door.

Buffy continues to wrap and pad, ignoring Ilyria’s warning. It’s not exactly first aid, but it’ll hold up until they get their hands on some actual gauze. When she seems satisfied with her patchwork, she turns back to Angel. He sits up.

“So, you probably have some questions,” he says, attempting a little humor.

“Yeah,” she says, folding her arms across her chest and approaching him. “But I think I don’t want you to answer them right now.”

“You don’t?” he asks, thrown.

She closes her eyes and sighs quietly. Angel studies her face; she’s not sixteen anymore. She looks like a woman, not a girl. She’s still small, still strong, still Buffy, but she’s older.

“No, not right now,” she says, startling him from his study. 

He gives her a nod, understanding. One crisis at a time, it makes enough sense. “Can I ask one question?” he requests.

“Of course,” Buffy says. Her eyes are kind. It’s not him she’s avoiding, it’s the difficult answers she knows she’ll get soon enough. He can’t fault her for putting them aside a bit longer.

“How . . .” he tries to think of what he wants to ask her, but his mind is still spinning and reeling and exhausted. He realizes maybe one question isn’t enough.

“Well, an apocalypse this big doesn’t really go down unnoticed,” Buffy explains. “So I called Willow in Brazil, but before I even got her voicemail she’d opened up a portal to me and Dawn and Andrew in Rome. We rounded up a few more—not an army or anything, mind you—but a couple of our best fighters and thinkers, and grabbed the first flight we could. Couldn’t fly in to LAX, for obvious reasons, so we flew in to the next best and high-tailed it on over to LA. We’ve only been here a day, but I ran into the god-king,” Buffy gestures after Ilyria, “who said something about my power. I told her who I was, and she said she knew my name from you and . . .” she throws her gaze over to Spike, briefly, but doesn’t finish her thought. “Anyway, she brought us to you. And you know the rest.”

Angel nods, although he’s pretty sure he only understands about half of what Buffy’s saying. She steps towards him and tips his chin up, placing a quick kiss on his forehead. She smiles at him before speaking. “There’s too much going on. We need to finish saving the world before I can ask any big questions.” She heads for the door, but she stops with her hand on the knob. “Will you stay here?”

Angel can’t conceive of moving much more than his eyelids on his own. He knows that he and his team took care of the worst of it, but there’s clean up to be done. “Yes,” he nods. “I’ll stay.”

Her eyes flicker back over to Spike. “You’re not going to kill him are you?” she asks sheepishly. Angel’s tired eyes follow her gaze over to him. No anger or even irritation flares up in his belly, just a small, gnawing worry and a bloom of . . . loyalty? Protectiveness?

“No,” he promises. “I’ll watch him.”

She bites her lip. “Maybe you should sleep,” she suggests lightly.

He shakes his head, still looking at Spike. “Not until he wakes up. We can’t be caught off guard, both of us sleeping.”

“Okay,” she says. He can feel her steeling herself before opening the door and striding purposefully out of the room, shutting the door behind her. He loses her footsteps somewhere on the bottom floor, among the other frantic humans.

His bed isn’t far from Spike, but the chair on the other side of Spike’s bed is closer and facing him, so Angel pushes himself to his feet. Immediately his vision blacks out and he falls to the floor and he’s momentarily glad that Spike is passed out because he’s pretty sure he just fainted and the bastard would never have let him live it down if he’d been awake. He’s quick to shake any thanks he’d been feeling when Spike’s laughter doesn’t cut through the air and it’s too quiet.

Angel grimaces—this isn’t going to be dignified—but, he reminds himself, dignity was left behind three days ago at least. He claws at the edge of Spike’s bed and pulls himself along on his knees until he makes it to the other side of the bed and clamors his way into the armchair.

Looking at Spike makes his stomach drop, he’s in bad, bad shape, even for an animated corpse. He is broken, bruised, bloody . . . destroyed, for all intents and purposes. Angel’s insides pinch looking at him. He picks up one tired hand and reaches for Spike, but he hesitates because there’s nowhere to put his hand that won’t hurt Spike. It frustrates him more than it ought to.

He sighs. He supposes there’s nothing else to do but sit there with him and hold his unnecessary breath until he wakes up.

Angel hopes he wakes up.


	2. Buffy - Revive

Buffy stands at the foot of the stairs, biting her lip. It’s been almost a day since she left the Hyperion with Faith for round two and honestly she thinks the physical stuff is going to be the easiest part of this whole thing. Willow has worked up a Sanctuary spell over the hotel, but it feels more chaotic than the streets, what with all the Scoobies running and shouting all over as they try to strategize and order each other around.

“You gonna go up or grow roots?”

Buffy smirks to herself and glances to Faith as she walks up beside her. “I was thinking that I’d let paralyzing indecision make both of those options impossible, what do you think?”

Faith chuckles. “C’mon, B, you can take both of them. You know, in whatever way you want to,” she winks.

Buffy feels the hot rush of a blush enflame her cheeks but she smiles despite herself. “So not the issue at hand.”

Faith’s smile doesn’t disappear, but her expression sobers a bit. “I’ve been meaning to ask ever since the blueberry brought him in. It _was_ Spike, right?”

Buffy nods. It’s too . . . unreal for her to say it yet. He is unspeaking, unmoving, everything unSpike and yet she’d seen him with her own eyes, touched him with her hands. She can’t decide if it would have been easier or harder if he’d been the one awake when she’d found them. And as for as unreal as it is, she can’t deny it’s real. To say she’d made peace with the events from a year ago would be an overstatement, but she’d spent so much telling herself she had that she isn’t entirely sure her head has wrapped around the recent turn of events.

Faith claps a hand on Buffy’s shoulder in commiseration. “I don’t envy you there, B. Things are gonna get complicated, huh?”

Buffy sighs. “It’s an apocalypse, there _have_ to be feelings. It’s, like, the law of the universe or something.”

Something dark flashes through Faith’s eyes for just an instant. If she were more on guard, Buffy likes to think she would have caught what it was, but for now she has to settle for mild confusion because just as quickly as it comes, it is gone and Faith gives Buffy a little shove. “Go, you yellow belly. And put your hair up, you have demon guts in it.” She tosses Buffy a blood bag and waves her off.

Buffy rolls her eyes, but she’s secretly thankful because that paralyzing indecision was really starting to set in. And she does have demon guts in her hair. Great, that’s cute.

She doesn’t bother knocking on the door; she figures if one or both of them is asleep it’s probably for the best. They look about the same as when she left except Angel has managed to drag himself over to the chair beside the bed. His eyes flicker up to her at the sound of the door she shuts behind her, but they fall back on Spike as she crosses the room and sits on the corner of the bed, dipping the mattress ever so slightly with her weight.

They’re both silent for a long time. Buffy feels a little self-conscious that her breath is the only noise in the room, but that’s nothing really new so she pushes past it. “Any changes since I left?” she asks in a whisper. Both of their gazes are on Spike. It’s easier that way, she supposes, easier than looking at each other.

“Not really. Ilyria found some good bandages and made that salve, but it doesn’t seem to have done any good yet.”

“And you’re okay? Do you want some—”

He holds out his hand and she gives him the blood. He delicately punctures the bag and hangs it over Spike’s mouth. “I told you, I’m fine.”

She watches the bright red drops fall at a moderate pace until the bag is nearly empty and she just wishes Angel would have some. “You shouldn’t be, though, Angel, and that’s what worries me.”

She practically feels his shoulders rising to his ears, his go-to defensive position, but before he responds, Spike shifts in the bed and murmurs something under his breath. Angel tosses the empty bag into the wastebasket with perfect aim.

“Hey,” she says softly. “How’re you feeling?” Her heart jumps in her chest.

“Like hell,” he murmurs. His face is screwed up in pain and he seems groggy, out of place.

“I’ve been, and you bear an awful resemblance,” Angel says. Buffy smacks his arm because it would be nice if they could have _three_ seconds where they act like adults about each other. 

“Fuck off.”

“Hey!” Buffy says sharply, turning back to Spike. He seems to really register her voice this time because his eyes snap open wide.

“Buffy,” he says. “I-”

“Am not dead, yes, we’ll cover that part soon. Are you okay?” she asks

“I’m not dust, so better than I anticipated.”

She reaches out and presses her hand to his cheek. “Good. I happen to like you not being dust.”

He leans into her hand like he’s melting, like she’s his lifeline even though she knows it’s hurting him to be touched. She rubs her thumb gently against his skin and suddenly she wants to cry. She doesn’t, but she wants to. “So,” she says, pretending her voice doesn’t crack. “How exactly are you not dust? Because last I understood, you were.”

Spike winces in her hand. “I don’t exactly know?”

“It’s still kind of unclear,” Angel adds. “Boils down to some mail sent by evil overlords, a brief stint as a ghost, and a much longer stint as my resident pain in the ass.”

Spike nods. “More or less covers it.”

“And you didn’t tell me because?” she looks between the two of them, her gaze harsh. It hurts that she didn’t know, wasn’t told, but she honestly feels so lucky they’re both undead that she can only play at anger. Irritation on the other hand . . .

Angel throws his hands up in surrender. “He didn’t do it. I figured it wasn’t my place.”

“Uh-huh,” Buffy narrows her eyes, not the slightest bit convinced. “Because you’re always on Spike’s side.”

Angel stumbles through some nonsensical syllables before Spike puts him out of his misery. “I would have lopped off his stupid head if he had.”

“Why?” Buffy demands. She realizes her hand is still on his cheek, which may not help her commanding tone, but she won’t let go yet.

Spike doesn’t answer for a moment, just stares up at her, leaning into her hand. “Did you really mean it?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately. There’s no question in her mind. Spike’s eyes light up. Angel’s, she notices from the corner of her vision, darken.

“I didn’t think you did. I’m still not sure I do, but at the moment I really don’t care.”

“How are you healing?” she asks, ignoring the sting his words leave.

“Slowly,” Angel says, tilting his head curiously.

“Yeah, not sure why though. You’re alright then?” he asks Angel.

“Mostly. Just tired.” 

Spike moves to sit up. Buffy notices the pain in his eyes, but Spike doesn’t seem to care. Angel scoots forward, reaching out to stop Spike. “This is a hotel, there are a rooms. I don’t need this one.”

Spike inspects the sheets, the mess of bandages beside the bed. “Maybe all the blood in this one would help you faster,” he suggests.

“I’ll take a power nap later, really, I’m fine.”

Buffy conceals her smile rather well, if she’s any judge. There’s always a (justified) fear that they’re going to try to hurt each other, but it seems like they’re honestly worried for one another.

“Buffy, you should stay here for a while,” Angel says, inspecting Spike like a doctor.

“What? Why?” she asks. There are large numbers of rogue and mildly evil demons running around. She figures she ought to go after them.

Angel and Spike share a look, Spike almost sheepish.

“Your heartbeat,” Angel explains. “It’s helping.”

“Pumping Slayer blood and all,” Spike admits. He closes his eyes and serenity settles his features. “It’s also quite soothing,”

“Oh,” Buffy feels her cheeks flush. “Okay. I was going to go kill some stuff, but I guess I can—”

“I’ll go,” Angel offers, standing.

“No,” she and Spike say simultaneously, flat decisiveness clear and finite in their voices.

“We can send Faith. And the blue one.”

“Ilyria,” Spike offers.

“Ilyria,” Buffy repeats, nodding her thanks. “But not you. You’ll pass out and probably get dusted or something. Sit,” she commands.

“But-“

“ _Sit_. Enjoy my super awesome heartbeat. Take a nap,” Buffy instructs, pulling out her phone.

_Hey Faith, wanna run patrol for me? I’m doing a thing with Spike and Angel._

_;) Get your freak on, B_

_OMG shut up Faith, not like that._

_Yet_

_Will you go?_

_I’m up for it._

_Take the demon god with you, it’s dangerous out there_

_UGH_

Buffy chuckles to herself, ignoring the looks from the vampires. “So,” she says, settling herself comfortably at the foot of the bed, “if we’re gonna sit here for a while, maybe you two can explain this apocalypse to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title (and many other chapter titles to come) from Delta Rae's 'Outlaws.' Give it a listen! Amazing song, amazing band.


	3. Spike - Caught Between a Spark and Lightning

“You need to go get something to eat, Buffy” Spike says. As it turns out, she had been quite tired and began to doze off in the middle of Angel’s story about how LA fucked itself this year. He hadn’t been able bring himself to wake her until her stomach started making noises of hunger.

“Hm?” she groans, blinking and squinting. Her stomach rumbles. “Oh.”

“Go downstairs, I think I heard Willow come back with food,” Angel says.

Spike nudges Buffy with his good shoulder. “Go on, we’ll still be here when you get back.”

Buffy yawns and stretches. It’s unbearably adorable. “Okay,” she sighs, hopping off. “You’re looking better,” she smiles. “I kinda thought you two made up that heartbeat stuff, but it’s actually working.”

“Yup, I’m a vision of health. Now go,” he nods to the door.

Buffy turns and leaves, two pairs of eyes watching her go.

“That went a lot better than I thought it would,” Angel says after she’s gone.

“Maybe I should get mortally wounded more often,” Spike says. He peels a piece of gauze off his side enough to peek in. The gash is beginning to heal quite nicely. It’ll be a nasty scar, but he doesn’t mind.

Angel glares at him. “That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard.”

Spike laughs. “Now I know that’s not true, I’ve had _much_ worse plans.”

Angel considers. “I like it least,” he amends.

Spike rolls his eyes. “Are you feeling any better?”

Angel nods. “I told you, I’m just tired. Whatever injuries I did get healed up fast.”

“I must be out of shape. I mean, I always make it out of a fight a lot worse than you, but not by this wide a margin.” Buffy’s little nap helped with the more superficial wounds but the deeper stuff was still lingering, his insides still felt raw and painful.

Angel shakes his head. “I should be more hurt. I’m not exactly sure how I’m so well off.”

“Well, you’ve always been a lucky bloke.”

“This can’t be just luck.”

Spike shrugs. “Beats me then.” He bites the inside of his cheek. This is going to hurt more than any of the various stab wounds or blunt force trauma. “Thanks,” he bites out. “For getting her to stay.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Yes, you did,” Spike frowns. “You were gonna leave, and Buffy was fine either way. That was for me.”

Angel’s eyes are hard to read, even for Spike. “I’m . . . you’re not dead. That’s—”

“Surprising, I know.”

“Spike, shut up, I’m trying here,” Angel snaps. Spike’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise but he stays quiet. Angel sighs and fumes for a few moments before finally looking at Spike again. “I wanted you to make it through. It’s good that you’re here. I’m glad you’re—well, that you're going to be okay.”

Spike can’t speak for a minute for the shock of it, which lets Angel clam up. “I mean, I’m not asking you to stay or anything. And I’m not—I don’t—”

“You’re such a bastard,” Spike interrupts him. Something like fury grows in his belly, hot and strong, but it’s not quite anger. “You’re a git and a moron. But, well, I think we both know that doesn’t matter. We’re a couple of idiots, the two of us. And we’re going to be a pair of morons until we die. Again. For real, I mean. I can’t stake you,” he shrugs. Angel looks something between confused and slightly offended. “I can’t. I’ve tried, I don’t have it in me. So, I guess to make a long story short, I’m glad I’m here, and I’m glad you’re here, too.”

“I think that was nice?” Angel squints.

“More or less,” Spike agrees.

Angel sighs. For someone who hasn’t aged a day in centuries, he can look very old sometimes, Spike thinks. “There’s no one else like us,” Angel says with quiet, profound intimacy. “Which is probably as it should be, but it was just me for so long. It’s just . . . nice not to be alone anymore.”

Spike feels like he should reach out or touch him or something, but he doesn’t. “Yeah, well,” he sniffs, averting his gaze, “you’re not.”

“Spike,” Angel says with something so old and commanding and tender in his voice that Spike has to look up, “I’ve always had you.”

Spike is glad he doesn’t have a pulse because the force of it probably would have torn open his wounds. “Yeah,” he says, absolutely entranced by Angel, his mouth dry and his eyes wide. “You have.” He shakes his head, which he instantly regrets because he sees stars and he’s pretty sure a few of his vertebrae are fractured. “So, what’d I miss?”

“Not much,” Angel sighs. “Ilyria brought Buffy and Willow to us, that’s how we got back here. There’s a whole gang working on the aftershocks downstairs. Faith is here, I saw her.” He closes his eyes and listens. “Sounds like . . . Well, Willow, of course. Xander. Giles. Andrew and Dawn. Someone else’s voice I don’t recognize . . . I think someone called him Robin?”

“Excellent,” Spike says sarcastically. “Bloody Scoobies. _Not_ my biggest fans.”

Angel shrugs. “They’re not huge on either of us. And at least Andrew worships you.”

“Yeah, but Robin tried to kill me. Did off with his mother, Nikki, in the seventies.”

“The Slayer?” Angel raises an eyebrow in surprise.

Spike nods bitterly. “Any cigarettes lying around?” he asks, eager to change the subject. “Could go for a smoke.”

Angel pulls open the bedside table drawer and sure enough there is an old, half-smoked pack of cigarettes and a vintage silver lighter. “No one’s been in here since the fifties, when you could smoke anywhere,” Angel explains, lighting one for himself before handing one to Spike and offering the flame.

Spike tries to pull the smoke into his breath, but instead he hacks and gasps painfully. “Fuck, think I’ve got a bloody collapsed lung,” he grumbles to himself. Angel reaches out and presses a firm hand to the right side of his chest, a look of concentration on his face. His hand doesn’t visibly move, but he applies minutiae of pressure and Spike nearly passes out again, gripping the side of the bed with one hand to hold on.

“Definitely,” Angel agrees, taking a drag and Spike rationally realizes that he’s not doing it just to bother him, but it does. He wants the calming, numbing nicotine high that fools him into feeling warm from the inside.

“Has the rain let up yet?” Spike asks, glancing towards the covered window.

Angel shakes his head, putting out what would have been Spike’s cigarette in the ashtray. “Pretty sure the last time LA saw this much rain Noah’s arc was setting sail.”

Spike considers making some bite at Angel and his book, but the dizzying pain has taken a toll on his combative attitude. “Suppose we can go out and help again then, yeah?”

Angel shoots him a look. “Not with a collapsed lung. Or any of the other injuries you’ve got. You’d be dust in a heart beat.”

Spike groans his discontent. “Don’t have a heart beat,” he murmurs darkly.

“It’s an expression, Spike.”

“I know. I’m injured and I can’t even bloody smoke, let me be a pedantic pissant. It’s all I’ve got.”

Something that sounds like it could have been a laugh rumbles in Angel’s chest and Spike quirks his split lip. His ears ring but he can still hear the chatter of the Scoobies downstairs, but some more recently familiar voices are missing. “Just us then?” he asks quietly.

“Us and Ilyria,” Angel says. There’s no rumble in his chest. “Lorne’s gone. Took out Lindsey. Found Gunn’s body—Faith buried him.”

Spike closes his eyes. “How the bloody hell do we keep making it?” he asks soberly. “Why do we get to keep coming back?”

“When I find an answer that makes sense I’ll let you know. God, Gunn should have made it . . . Couldn’t have, but should have.”

“Faith give him a good send off?”

“Dunno, haven’t talked to her yet. Just . . .” Angel looks away, towards the suddenly very interesting wall, “been here. About a day, now, I think.”

The significant weirdness of Angel choosing to spend his entire day with Spike is not lost on him, but he decides that he is not ready to start dealing with that. Especially after their rather heartfelt vows of ‘I kind of tolerate your presence.’ Instead, Spike raises a shaky hand to his neck. “Huh, still attached,” he teases.

“It’d be a bit anticlimactic to behead you _after_ the big battle, wouldn’t it? Besides, it’s a lot easier to not kill you when you’re passed out.”

Spike smirks. “Thanks, appreciate it, mate.”

Angel rolls his eyes. “Whatever. We need blood if either of us is going to get back out there any time soon. I know there’s plenty left here.” Angel stands to leave, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be right back.”

Spike feels the flame of hunger in his throat roar to life at the mention of blood. He hadn’t realized how starved he was. He desperately wishes he could go too, but his myriads of wounds prevents him from doing anything more than watch as Angel leaves. Angel staggers somewhat around the corner and Spike hates him a little for it, both because he’s envious and because there is the slightest pinch of worry in his chest. “Hurry back.”

Spike closes his eyes once Angel disappears. No breath, no heartbeat, he really is dead—and yet he’ll walk again, soon enough that, in the grand scheme of his own life, it’s just a blip on the radar. Wesley, Gunn, and Fred won’t. He hadn’t even known them that long, but he knows it isn’t fair.

“What, did Angel teach you to play dead?” a sweetly raspy voice coos.

Spike opens one eye and glares at Faith in the doorway. “I am dead,” he says flatly.

Faith grins at him. “I’m glad it didn’t really take. Gunn though . . .” Faith scuffs the ground with the toe of her boot. “I did the best I could. Got jumped by a couple of big fiery guys while I was doing it. Willow hadn’t finished the Sanctuary spell yet.”

Spike nods minutely. “He deserved better, but it was the best he was gonna get.”

Faith winces, like the thought hurts her, but she strolls over to the chair Angel had been sitting in and plops down. “So you’ve been here, huh? In LA with Angel and the gang?” she asks.

“Guess you could say that. With, against, same difference, really, but I’ve been here since I got back, yeah.”

Faith is quiet for a while. When she finally speaks she has surprisingly honest eyes. “How come you didn’t call any of us?”

“Coming back ain’t easy, love. Facing what you left behind.”

Faith seems to register his claim as true, like he expected she would. “You still have to. Eventually.”

“Well, I guess this is eventually then,” he smirks.

Faith smiles a wide, toothy smile. “Well, alright then. Welcome back to the land of the living. Or undead, or whatever.”

Spike rolls his eyes, but feels fondness blossom in his chest. “Give me a lay of the land, then. What am I looking at when I can stand again?”

“It’s pretty insane out there, still,” she nods at the window. “But it’s not really a war, now, more like chaos. Just gotta keep fighting until we win out. A couple of Slayer teams and rogue fighters and other Goodies have ridden in to town and are fighting the good fight. It helps not to be the only ones anymore.”

“Uh, thanks for that, but I meant more immediate. Like, downstairs, what am I looking at? Anyone trying to stake me? Your boyfriend?”

Faith throws her head back and laughs. “Robin’s a good lay, but we’re _not_ a thing. He doesn’t really want to kill you anymore, I don’t think. Maybe a little, but we all want to kill each other a little.”

“Fair enough.”

“Other than that? Just Giles. Dawn’s thrilled but G-man made her focus on book-y stuff first, before she’s allowed to see you. Xander is less thrilled, but he’s not going to go against Buffy. Andrew is a little bit—maybe a lot—in love with you, so do with that what you will. Speaking of: Will is more delighted than I would have thought.”

“We’re like that, me and Red. Surprising,” Spike says sagely.

Faith nods, but her eyes become more measured, more cautious, as she continues. “Buffy is . . . Buffy. All duty: slay first—feelings later.”

“You don’t have to be gentle for my sake,” Spike says. He knows it will hurt, when the time comes, but he has no interest in lies.

“I wish I could say I was just being nice, honestly, Spike,” Faith shakes her head. “But I’m not. I have to say, though, I think she’s taking the whole ‘you’re alive and didn’t tell her’ thing pretty well. I’d probably have staked you,” she winks.

“Well, it’s a good thing it’s not you, then, isn’t it?”

Faith smiles, leaning back in the chair and kicking her feet up against the mattress. “Guess you’re just lucky like that.”

“I’m the luckiest bloke you’ve ever met.”

“Somehow I’m not really buying what you’re selling.”

Spike purses his lips and shoots Faith a blistering glare. “No need to be rude yet, it’s only been a few minutes.”

Faith’s tongue plays behind her teeth and he can see the little bits of pink pushing through in her smile. “I mention I’m glad you’re not dead yet?”

“Got it pretty rough in the head out there, my memory’s a little shaky. Can’t seem to recall.”

“Right, okay then. I’m so super glad you’re not dead, Spike.” She reaches for the cigarettes on the bedside table and offers him one.

“Gotta wait for my lung to heal,” he says, forlorn.

“Bummer,” she says, lighting one for herself.

“Distract me. Tell me what I missed.”

Faith quirks an eyebrow, taking a slow drag and letting it back out in a steady stream. “Alright. Kind of a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, in that case . . .”


	4. Buffy Interlude - The Stars Fell and We Let Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faith's chapter is up next, but I had to get this out first. Set right after 'Chosen.'

The sun sank beneath the horizon not more than an hour ago, some of its light still dying in the encroaching darkness. Buffy hasn’t taken her eyes of the sky in hours. It’s so far away, so big that she can’t really wrap her head around it and that’s exactly what she needs, something she can’t wrap her head around.

Below, her feet dangle in the chasm that used to be her home, swallowed by the mouth of hell. She knows it’s smaller than the sky, but it doesn’t feel that way. She can kick her heels in the dead air. It makes her feel like she’s floating.

Giles drove the others off before sunset to find a place to stay for the night, promising to come back for Buffy when she called, whenever that may be. She’s not sure she’s going to call him tonight. 

She hasn’t said a word since just after stepping out of the school bus. There’s so much rushing through her mind—they did it, they won—she feels so awake and so like she’s dreaming. There is power in her blood but weakness in her flesh. That’s just it, though—that’s the point—she’s not the only blood anymore, she’s not the only flesh.

The last of the light dies in the sky, but that’s all right. Buffy’s always felt at peace with the night, leaping between stars and hiding in the darkness, breathing in the Milky Way and exhaling stardust. Without the harsh light of day Buffy can barely tell where the sky ends and the once-Sunnydale chasm begins. The blurry line makes it easier for her to finally look down, into the darkness and face the reality that the night sky is fuller than the place she once called home.

Her eyes catch something. It’s another set of feet, bruised and scratched, dangling beside hers. She blinks, surprised, until she remembers hearing Faith tell Giles she’s going to stay with Buffy somewhere in the back of her mind.

“You here, B?” Faith asks. Her voice is quietly ear-piercing. It had all been so loud, so chaotically loud, that Buffy’s ears had grown accustomed to ambient noise, but now with nothing other than her tired, throaty voice Faith cuts through like a knife through butter.

“I’m here,” Buffy replies. She can hear the age in her voice, like she’s a hundred years old and a thousand years tired.

Faith’s hand drifts beside hers, warm and alive but not touching. “Good. You’ve been gone for hours.”

“It was my home,” Buffy says simply. She feels like she’s waking up.

Faith leans over, looking down into the abyss. “We could go down there, if you want. Look for . . .”

“Bodies?” Buffy supplies. She shakes her head. “Nothing we could do but look, they’re already buried. It’d be rude to disturb their rest.”

Faith sighs, pushing her hair over her shoulder. Buffy can see her neck. They have matching scars where Angel bit them. “We could look for the amulet,” Faith says quietly. Her brown eyes ask no questions and for that Buffy is grateful.

“I think it would burn me,” she whispers. “And I can’t . . . I couldn’t hold it.”

“Alright,” says Faith. “But are you? Alright?”

Buffy shrugs. “Yes and no. Can I have a cigarette?”

Faith’s expression leaps with surprise but she pulls out her pack and hands one to Buffy, watching with curious eyes. Buffy holds the yellow bit in one hand and presses her left index finger to the end. She closes her eyes and doesn’t open them until she smells smoke. She smiles at the end burning cherry red.

“Whoa, did we get new powers that I don’t know about?” Faith asks, studying the cigarette that Buffy holds in the nook between her fingers.

“No, that was a parting gift,” she says, smiling softly. The smoke curls through the night air and she thinks of his smile. “And that’s the end of it.”

“You’re not gonna smoke it?” Faith presses.

“No,” Buffy says.

“Poetic.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

Buffy is back to staring up at the sky, watching the smoke disappear, but she can see Faith’s bemused expression from the corner of her eye. Eventually the cigarette burns out, nothing more than ash between her fingers. Watching the embers climb to the very end, she feels something suffocate her, climbing her throat like the burning cigarette. “Hey Faith?” she says, and she can hear the wrinkle in her voice.

“Yeah, Buff?”

“I think I’m gonna cry.”

Faith’s mouth twitches, her eyes unsure. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I think it’s gonna be an ugly cry.”

Faith moves to stand with a nod but stops midway through. “Um. That . . . that wasn’t a no, was it?”

Buffy gives her a watery smile and Faith catches her as she bursts into loud, painful sobs. There is no one thing she cries for in particular; she cries for the girls, for her friends, for him, for her home, for herself—some nebulous amalgamation of all of it. It’s all caught up with her now, the hours that were a year in the making.

“We won, B,” Faith murmurs, stroking her hair as Buffy cries against her shoulder.

“I know. I think that’s why it hurts so much,” Buffy replies in choked sobs.

Faith’s hands stiffen. “Oh.”

Buffy cries herself out in a few more minutes—she’s so drained there isn’t much left in her to cry—and pulls back from Faith. “I’m sorry,” she sniffles. “I got snot all over you.”

“There’s a lot worse goo out there than Buffy snot. Probably smells like roses or something,” Faith says, carefully approaching humor.

Buffy chuckles, even though it chokes in the back of her throat with her uneasy breath. “I always thought of myself as more of a daisies girl.”

“What do I know about flowers?” Faith shrugs, smiling. Her lip splits and a tiny blob of blood oozes out. “Shit, thought I was all healed up already,” she grumbles, swiping at it with her thumb.

“Maybe the magic server’s a little too overloaded for healing right now,” Buffy suggests. She scoots closer to Faith so they fully connect from ankle to shoulder. “I’m still achy.”

“You just ugly cried, of course you’re achy.”

“I will push you into the ditch, don’t test me,” Buffy teases, trying and failing to suppress a sniffle for good measure. A singularly overwhelming feeling of insignificance strikes Buffy’s heart with alarming precision. “It’s not just us anymore, Faith,” she says, looking up at the sky again. Without the light pollution the sky is unfathomably black and littered with stars. It reminds Buffy of Faith’s smile.

“Nah. But you know what? It still kinda is. I mean, we don’t have to be everywhere at once, but who knows the gig better than us?”

“There aren’t any more Watchers. Probably a lot of scared girls out there.”

“Well, aren’t they lucky they got us?” Faith says with a grin. “Y’know, to help them on the whole perilous-journey-of-right-and-wrong. You can be right, I’ll be wrong.”

“You’re not wrong anymore,” Buffy says with solemnity in her voice.

Faith sighs. “I am. But it counts for something that I’m trying not to be.”

It does, Buffy thinks. It does count. “I think I’m going to go away,” Buffy says.

“Away where?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Maybe France. Some other continent, I think. Where do you want to go?”

“C’mon, B, you know I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Did you think you were going to die?”

“Yeah, I kinda did.”

Buffy squeezes Faith’s hand in hers but says nothing, allowing Faith to continue.

“I . . . I didn’t want to, but I honestly can’t believe I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.”

Faith shakes her head. “Something’s messed up.”

“Stop,” Buffy commands. “Don’t do that. We made it.”

Faith looks broken. “Then what am I gonna do?” she whispers.

Buffy’s thumb slides over the back of Faith’s hand. She’s quiet for a moment. “You could come with me,” she offers. She already knows the answer, but it’s important that she asks.

“I . . . I can’t.”

“I know,” Buffy says. “But I had to say it.”

Faith shakes her head. “I dunno . . . For the first time in my life I want to do something. Me, on my own, no one convincing me or ordering me around. All I know how to do is fight.”

“It’s what we were made to do. What we were all made to do. There’s gotta be a lot of girls all over the place that need to learn how to make what’s inside of them real.” There’s a real chance this isn’t what Faith wants, but Buffy has to try.

“You saw how bad I fucked up last time I tried that.”

“Yeah, I did. You know they’d have been a lot worse off if they didn’t have you at all, though. Look, it doesn’t have to be much, but you could try. Your own way, on your own terms. If you want to do something, this is something.”

Faith looks up to the stars and Buffy swears she can see a glimmer of tears in Faith’s eyes. A deep, painful sense of hope spears through Buffy’s chest, the kind of hope that hurts to feel because of what it costs.

“I’ll try,” Faith whispers. Buffy can hear the crack in her voice anyway.


End file.
